Beast Week Coda: Wailing for her Demon Lover

"He's um . . . I don't know, kind of inscrutable." These words, spoken by Colette at the opening of Part Two of Marian Churchland's Beast in an abortive attempt to describe the book's eponymous anti-hero to her friend Jane, could just as easily be used to describe Churchland's book itself. Beast is that rare example of a comic--though we could easily apply this to novels or movies--that, by borrowing elements from other works, artists, movements, forms and genres, becomes something utterly new and unclassifiable and still somehow manages to be beautiful, meaningful and affecting. Originating from a dream that is not a little reminiscent of "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," Churchland borrows the structure of her favorite fairy tale, using it to construct an ambivalently Freudian, post-feminist pleasure dome, populated by Italian Renaissance artists, Samuel Taylor Coleridge and even a little bit of Byron, by way of Paul Pope.


Though Churchland's book ultimately deviates from its original in many fundamental ways, it is useful to remember that "Beauty and the Beast" is a tale that begins with a father's prostitution of his daughter. Beast's opening, in which Colette is taken by her father to a mysterious sculpting commission that he arranged, imposes a sense of ambiguity, the feeling that something is being withheld from the reader, that we don't have all the information, which propels the whole of the narrative. The relationship between Colette and her father is clearly transactional; she relies on her him to divvy out whatever "bottom-feeder" art commissions he is able to, but the revelation that he is unaware that she is no longer with her boyfriend (whose name he struggles to remember) reveals that they have long since retreated from any traditional notions of familial intimacy. The scene is a perfect, exceptionally economical opening to the book, introducing each of the book's major themes--gender politics, creative integrity, menacing and complex sexuality--in a scant few pages.

One of the fascinating things about Beast, and perhaps that aspect of the book that makes you want to keep going back to it, looking at it more closely, is that Churchland resists taking any of its elements to its logical conclusion and therefore pigeonholing the narrative. Thus, while the story has some very definite things to say about women and creativity and power, these statements are problematized by some of the book's imagery and the ambiguous sexual position of Colette vis a vis Beast. A great subtle example is the the juxtaposition of panels which show the upper portion of the Carrera marble slab atop Colette's body from the waist down. At first glance, this appears a relatively straight-forward association of the artist with her medium. But a closer look--perhaps a dirtier mind--reveals the great white phallus of the marble towering over Colette's crotch.


Of course, Colette is only able to complete her sculpture when she abandons the gradual chipping away of the chisel for the power drill's penetration. In effect, Colette denatures the marble's monotonous masculinity by drilling it full of holes. The image, then, is one in which the masculine and feminine are present together--the marble embodies both qualities.


This sort of fluidity of imagery and representation is consistent with Churchland's illustration strategies. Colette, though undeniably gorgeous and feminine, has a boy's long arms and narrow hips. The aggressively Byronic Beast, who owes perhaps just a small debt to Paul Pope's Batman, occupies a similarly ambiguous position with respect to gender, with his long delicate fingers and narrow shoulders.


I don't mean for any of this to suggest that this is what Beast is about. Indeed, as I mentioned above, it is the book's ambiguity, its consistent refusal to lend itself to one particular reading or interpretation that makes it so interesting. There are lots of other curious questions planted throughout the book, such as the hinted at association of Roz with Cecilia or Colette's highly unstable hair-length, but they aren't questions which beg resolution, they just present interesting and variable readings.

The point, of course, is that Churchland has created an admirably, no, remarkably complex and rewarding narrative that augments her already apparent (to me, anyway) illustration skills. This bodes well for those of us who like to read smart comics that aren't smarty-pants comics, comics which are personal but not sappy-autobiographical. Marian Churchland officially enters that growing pantheon of interesting and talented creators who are bucking the typical categorizations of high and low comics and in doing so pointing toward a rich possible future for the medium.

Beast Week: Realism & Expressionism

First thing I noticed when I picked up Beast was the back cover: A close-up of an oil painting, so close as to only fit the sweeping brush strokes, capturing the 3D effect of thickly-applied paint on more paint. The kind of thing it's rare of a 2D image to recreate. The brush strokes there are so real you expect to be able to feel them and at the same time, they represent nothing; they're totally abstract. After reading Beast, this makes perfect sense; the back cover encapsulates the story’s tension between realism and expressionism.

On the one hand, Churchland gives you panels of just hands, messy crossword puzzles, or dirt around the toilet, and on the other, you get Beast and all the otherworldly stuff he brings with him. It’s the driving force at the center of the comic, highlighting Colette's problems, and more simply, it makes the book interesting to read. Because the story focuses so much on emotions, the headbutting of real and unreal that goes on is perfect. Yeah, emotions are these weird swirly Beast eyes, but they’re also this intensely real things--frustration with dad, an obsession with passivity, a complex break-up--that have the same complexities that Churchland puts in the physical world around Colette.

She’s got to figure things out--just like any of us would--on the fly, in the moment, when it's right in front her face. The characters have this Cassavetes-like realism to them, where their emotions are understated and hardly spoken, but it's clear what they are and that a cavalcade of fears and anxieties are just bubbling underneath the surface. The dialogue has the same sort of realism, with the characters speaking more like actual people rather than characters using comic-book-speak.

Beast is always the one bringing these emotions to the surface, acting as a foil for Colette. When you first read meet him it’s not clear whether Beast is even real. Certainly the first night she’s there Colette wonders the same thing. The first time she meets him, he tells her a story that makes her cry. This is instantly a powerful moment since Churchland has already established--through the story's inherent realism--Colette's rather unsure, inactive character. You know the weight of what's happening even though it's near the beginning, and you can tell she's not a person to cry over everything. Beast is this intangible force that makes Colette leave her comfort zone to explore this unknown world/person that is the future, herself, emotions, creativity, etc.

Even though Beast is central to the story, Churchland talks about reining in the fairy tale elements in her afterword to the book. She says that when she was a kid she always thought that the part when the Beast turned into a handsome Prince was disappointing and fake. There's a natural attraction to fairy tales but any thinking, contemporary reader can't help but yearn for something a little more to them. Something that doesn't play-out quite so perfectly and harmoniously. So, Churchland keeps her Beast lurking on the fringes never gaining control of what is Colette's story.

It’s a clever flip on the classic fairy tale but it still keeps the central theme of transformation. And that’s what makes Beast great because no matter what is going on, each moment always remains rooted in the brain of Colette--be it real or unreal. It’s Colette’s transformation and it's The Beast that allows it to happen. And when Colette finally comes to terms with things, we’re never quite sure what she comes to terms with. Through her work and each encounter with Beast, she gets more comfortable. She starts to listen to him and realizes he’s not something that just comes in through windows and sends chills up your spine but some kind of hard to figure out inspirational force. The Beast is never defined even though he is a tangible character. He’s purposefully kept ambiguous and represent lots of things and one thing. But what's that one thing? Only Colette knows. The ending is the final culmination of it all. Plowing through crayon shadows to get to a photograph. It's art breaking through to our reality, not the other way around.

Beast Week: King City #3 Cover

This week, the third issue of Brandon Graham's King City came out and it's got a cover by Marian Churchland. Like her guest work on Elephantmen this summer, Churchland's cover here has the strange effect of very much keeping in the tradition of the comic she's guest drawing and usurping many of its long-established traditions.

The tension of Elephantmen was always the very smart writing rubbing up against the very typical IMAGE style art--the art's really good, but it's full of muscles, guns, and boobs, so you know what I mean--and Churchland relieved that tension by providing art that was as sensitive and realistic as the writing. The series couldn't sustain itself if this tension were permanently resolved, but for a few issues, it was a delight.

"I grew to particularly like the Miki character, despite my initial grumblings about how drawing wasp-waisted big-tittied ladies is not my thing, and I wanted to do something with her beyond simply illustrating the issue."

That's a quote from Churchland's livejournal and it's an interesting way to enter the like, side-goals of her work. Namely, it seems to me at least, a polite, wise corrective to how most females look--and with Beast act--in most comics. Neither Elephantmen or King City are "sexist" or anything or even negative in their portrayal--I think there's an irony to the way the use absurd proportions for the women--but well, Churchland brings the female characters down to earth in really unprecedented ways.
Above is a terrible photo--sorry no scanner--of the character from King City that Churchland put on the cover. This is of course, Brandon Graham's version. Especially here, you're witnessing the ironic use of the "typical" female in comics art, as the entire point of the character here is to idealize her. To make her unreal, too attractive. She's like a rap video girl and that's awesome. It's also of course, it's own version of "feminism" in the sense that girls shaped like this are just as under-represented in popular media as "average"-shaped girls, but that's neither here nor there right now. The point is to just look at the way Churchland's retained the character and her characteristics, while also slanting the details towards her own interests.
Notice the spindly fingers and the boney arms here. All of these smaller features are aimed at contrasting with the awesomely giant ass the character has--something Churchland retains and maybe even enlarges--but they're also the reality of a particularly thin or oddly-proportioned person. And there are wrinkles in her clothes? Around the sleeve of the hand holding the cigarette. These kinds of details poke through and add a lot to the image. There's also the weird way that part of her arm--around the armpit--sticks out of the dress; it's sliding off provocatively, but also because maybe the dress doesn't fit her right.



For a grasp on rarefied form of "feminism" going on in Churchland's work--a feminism that is basically more like, coming at it from a point of view us dudes are unaware of or not sensitive enough to and nothing more--it's important to notice how indeed, the absurd proportions are keep intact. And also how, the clothes (a tight dress, thigh highs) are given some kind of earthy reality to them, making the outfit both a little more absurd and that much more attractive.

That napkin or handkerchief hanging halfway off the barstool, a nearly empty packet of cigarettes on top of it, is just a small touch of regularity to the image. The same way Churchland peppers Beast with grime on the toilet or numbers scratched on a wall, does she place these slabs of how-stuff-really-is into the image. These are the things glossed over or purposefully forgotten by a lot of artists--especially comics artists--because they de-idealize the image because well, that's the tradition of comics.

And now, the best part of the cover and indeed, the most actively "real": The reinforced toes on the stockings and the rubber soles of the shoes. This is most certainly the kind of thing a lot of people just don't think about, especially if you're a guy. I don't wish to paint Churchland into the corner of "female comics artist" but in a way, she's the proper kind of fact-checker, corrective to a male-dominated comics world. Most guys are not going to think about the toes of a pair of stockings or how even shoes you'd go out to a bar or club in, indeed have dopey rubber soles. When it comes to women's clothing, especially "sexy" women's clothing, all the seams and pieces are ignored for the greater whole. Part of this has to do with a general forgetting of the details, but it also has to do with a tendency to objectify and simplify chicks and chick stuff. Churchland's like "funk that!".

And the effect on the art is not only this subtly political stuff about gender and all that, but a wordless message to sensitive viewers/readers that the person behind the pen here really cares and really thinks about comics stuff and the real world. Churchland's work stands-out because of its careful attention to detail and its thoughtfulness. She doesn't lose track of the importance of things looking good--and in the case of this cover, looking attractive--but it's done on her own terms; wrapped up in the details so often overlooked, but a notable part of everyday living for any female.

The 24-7 coverage of celebrities and celebrity culture has brought about probably one hundred times the number of images we see of famous people. That's to say, the "on-the-fly" or live, untouched photos of someone now far outweigh the fancy, glossy, photo-shopped pictures in magazines. This recent photo of Rihanna, out somewhere or another reminded me of Graham's King City character and particularly, Churchland's variation: That mix of untouchable beauty/sexuality and palpable reality. Most comics art's the spread in Vogue, Churchland's art is the in-the-moment, dress a little wrinkled, candid shot.

Beast Week: Carrara Marble

It’s a rare experience to find a comic that obviously holds great personal importance to the artist, and at the same time, is equally meaningful to the reader. Not to mention a book which is exciting, beautiful and has awesome references to Renaissance art. Marian Churchland’s Beast combines all these things for a wonderfully mastered debut graphic novel.

Most of what I love about this book comes out of my own subjective interpretations of events and details, but I think that’s what makes this book so special. Any artist, writer, or anyone who’s ever created anything can undoubtedly see themselves in Colette, the main character. Her relationship with the dark, amorphous character of Beast accurately captures the confusing, scary, and amazing feeling that comes with the pursuit of artistic motivation. You can feel its presence in a room, maybe you can even put your hand on it, but there will always be times where you question whether or not it’s even real. Anyway, she says it all better than I can.

The art alone speaks on the creative process. Churchland’s visible pencil lines and light, tonal washes seem delicate and deliberate. It’s like looking at an x-ray of a comic, where you can see each individual line and sense all the care that went into making the piece complete. The only issue I have with the art, which Churchland acknowledges in her afterword, is her treatment of Colette’s face. Her expression tends to be repetitive and difficult to read emotion on. From looking at other examples of Churchland’s work, like her issues of Elephantmen and even the work from her personal livejournal and deviantart, she definitely knows what’s up with faces. Perhaps it’s just a problem with the character of Colette in particular, but I feel like Churchland’s art flourishes when she goes for the less literal, more cartoonish expression. I stand by Scott McCloud’s assertion that the less detail in a face, the more room a viewer has to project themselves onto a character (See Understanding Comics, pg. 36). With the meaningful story in Beast, I feel like the answer to the issue of Colette’s face may be closer to what Churchland does in her awesome idea for heated pajamas.

The bean-shaped smile, the sideways apostrophe eyes are goofy, sure, but those objects, when abstracted like that, are read more as symbols than the actual objects they are supposed to be. We already know the meaning they convey. It sounds obtuse, but this technique has the possibility to read deeply into a character's emotions.

As a senior art history major in the process of trying to further my education, and taking steps to make a career out of what I love, the themes in Beast have particular resonance to me. The inclusion of Carrara marble in the book is a factually accurate detail which firmly places Beast's past in Renaissance Florence, but for me it has this dopey, really personal connection which melds the book to my experience. I haven't really been to Carrara, but I took a train through it, and in my hazy, half asleep and madly homesick brain, I have a distinct image of how the mountains looked like they were covered in snow, when what I was seeing was actually marble. I know it's like beyond cheesey, it's like a huge chunk of the stinkiest Limburger from old cartoons, but actually seeing (from really far away, granted) the place where the marble for greats like Michelangelo's David came from and getting this kind of intangible sense of vastness and simplicity of nature and art is, you know, really fucking heavy.

The afterword, where Churchland explains the creation of the book, clearly exhibits the devotion and love she has for her work. Both she and her gentleman caller, Brandon Graham, both have this way of writing about working on comics that gives you so much hope about sustained effort and labors of love that you just want to punch all negativity in the face, grab a pen, a brush—whatever, and do the damn thang.

Beast Week: Stuff Around Your Toilet Bowl

There's a scene somewhere in Part Two of Beast where the main character Colette, takes a break from sculpting to take a bath. The simple fact that Colette's taking a bath in this grimy, kinda creepy rundown house shows how far her characters' comfort--and confidence--has grown since the beginning of the book (Churchland is really good at this kind of squashing of emotions into a single image or scene) but as the scene moves on, more and more piece of Colette's personality rolls out. Details that stretch beyond her character's "emotional arc" and junk poke through.

Sitting in the tub, she recalls her ex-boyfriend's much nicer bathroom and this sends her thinking of/fantasizing him climbing into the bathtub with her. It doesn't go any further than that, but there's something really wise and again, economic, about how sex creeps into Beast here and then slips away. Despite it's meta-fairy tale conceit and it's magic realism, Beast is a book wrapped in tiny pieces of real-ness: dirt on the toilet seat, the "make your dick bigger" e-mails everybody gets, etc. This is not all the comic is, but it's a big part of it and it's all sticking out of the larger, more moving narrative and indeed, makes that narrative a lot more moving.

Because it feels real. It doesn't shout out "gritty" or anything, indeed the narrative is rather mannered, all stuff bubbling under the surface, but suddenly all of it's right there: Something that grounds the story in big, dumb real life. Something that slyly tells the reader "the person writing this lives a life and thinks about shit, the kind of shit a lot of us don't think about". And a big part of life is the dirty around the toilet bowl, or bigger stuff like fretting about one's passivity in the world, and weird stuff like thinking about doing it with an ex even though you basically think the person's a total douche now.

A page or so after the understated sex-fantasy scene, Colette climbs out of the tub and Churchland purposefully shows her naked body. The panel doesn't cut off at her boobs or nothing and there's no like, bathtub fog covering her up somehow, it's just right there. It's understated and it's really in-your-face. At the risk of getting creepy, it's worth nothing that Churchland gives Colette a regular, uh, "bush" or pubic hair. This isn't abnormal in the real world but in comics, it's rare to get nudity this mindfully not erotic. Paradoxically, the reality of it, the accuracy, actually makes it very attractive. I talked about that here though.

This kind of thing, these special touches of detail--sensitive, harsh, sometimes hilarious, often embarrassing--seem like a good place to begin thinking about Beast precisely because it's the kind of thing a lot of people will gloss over for the bigger picture. The genius of Beast--well, part of its genius--is how the bigger picture gains deeper, weirder, more awesome caves of meaning because of its unwavering sensitivity to the small stuff.

Beast Week!

So, this week we're gonna focus on Marian Churchland's book Beast, put out by IMAGE and for sale at any comics store worth anything. Besides just being an excellent "graphic novel"--and it really is, since it's coming out in one big chunk and it very much reads like a real book--it just plain looks really nice, like each and every aspect of the book was thought about and conceptualized, which is nice in a world of comics that either look like crap by accident or are all hip and cool, so they're supposed to look like crap.

It's also exactly the kind of stuff we try to celebrate around here: A smart, complex, literary comic book that still retains a level of wonder and appreciation for comic books as an artform. So yeah, if you haven't read Beast yet, go get it so you can be part of our little Beast book club over here. For right now, I'd love to get some readers' comments about the book, good or bad...